


Bodie Found

by hutchynstarsk



Series: Lost and Found [2]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After breaking Bodie out of the mental hospital, Doyle devotes himself to Bodie's recovery.  </p><p> </p><p>Sequel to “Bodie Lost” (probably can’t stand alone)<br/>http://archiveofourown.org/works/449268<br/>Gen, or romantic friendship</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodie Found

**Author's Note:**

> With beta thanks to [](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile)[**anna060957**](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/). All mistakes are my own. And obviously, I don't own these characters.

sequel to Bodie Lost: http://archiveofourown.org/works/449268

　

　

　

　

　

 

Bodie Found

 

　

The illusion was still there. _Doyle_ was still there.

So far he had just been going with the flow, so glad and relieved to have a good hallucination instead of a bad one.

And what could be better? Being by Doyle’s side as they went on an obviously important mission (because Doyle was intent, intense, driving fast). Then other times they were in their flats: Bodie’s or Doyle’s. They seemed to change without warning.

But everything was all right. Everything felt more real, when Doyle was here.

Now they weren’t anywhere he recognised, weren’t doing anything he was used to.

He watched Doyle moodily as he walked back and forth, curls springing, step energetic, even a bit frantic. He was putting things away, unpacking in this strange place with the wood walls and the crawling ceiling. Bodie wanted to tell him to be still; it made his eyes hurt, going back and forth so much. His eyelids drooped. He wanted to sleep, but how could he leave Doyle, even if he wasn’t real?

He felt himself drifting, all the same... Fighting it didn’t last long. He despised his weakness, even as sleep called to him like a mermaid.

#

Bodie let out a frustrated groan, and Doyle stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to see Bodie stretched out on the bed, eyelids heavy and face sullen with irritation. He was watching Doyle, and despite not speaking, his face was very expressive at the moment: holding all the indignant surprise he’d have held for his own body’s weakness if he’d failed one of Macklin’s tests.

Bodie always did think he was invincible. Sometimes, he almost got you to believe it as well.

Doyle walked over. "You can sleep, mate. We’re safe here." Bodie didn’t stop watching him. He looked stubborn and miserable, his face bleak. "Hungry?" asked Doyle. He sank to the edge of the bed.

His own restlessness was probably wearing off on Bodie. Should be more careful. Bodie seemed to have nothing else to take his cues from, and Doyle needed to be calm and cheerful to help him. He tried a smile. "Got biscuits. Or I can make spaghetti. Hey?" He reached out to give Bodie’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

Instead, Bodie’s hand swiped for him, clumsy, not quite connecting. Trying to get a hold on him.

Doyle moved closer, brought his arm down to rest in Bodie’s hand. "Need to hang onto somebody, mate?" he asked gently.

Bodie nodded.

Doyle grinned, happier than he’d ever have known a single nod could make him. Bodie was responding! "That’s fine, mate." His heartbeat was joyous with Bodie responding to him, in whatever way. "You hold on if you want." He lowered himself to lie cautiously on one half of the large bed. Well, slightly less, because Bodie was stretched out with abandon.

Bodie’s hand closed firmly over Ray’s wrist. Immediately, Bodie’s eyes shut. His breathing deepened and steadied; he lay still as a rock. Doyle smiled. Already, Bodie had come so far. He’d probably be well in a week.

Doyle closed his eyes, too, and forced himself to rest. His mind had been in a whirl since kidnapping—rescuing—Bodie. He’d packed, travelled, even gone to the bank, and then found a little out-of-the-way cottage in Devon and rented it. All had gone well so far. But now it was hard to turn his mind off.

Here, with Bodie, he had to try. He forced himself to use steady breathing techniques, to follow Bodie’s example, to lie still, to breathe the same way, to let his eyelids grow heavy. At last, even in the strange surroundings, sleep found him—blessed sleep, sleep that knit...something. Nits...sleep...something.

#

Bodie stood beside the bed, feeling uncomfortable. He was awake, and not awake. Doyle was stripping the sheets off. Bodie felt uncomfortable in a way that, in a second, he would understand, and didn’t want to understand.

His trousers were cold and wet. And even though it was first thing in the morning, he didn’t need to use the loo.

Doyle looked up and caught his eye, and gave him a smile he almost managed to mean. "Don’t worry about it mate." He gave Bodie’s arm a comforting little rub, then went back to stripping the bed.

It was a good thing this was only an illusion. Certainly wetting the bed and having to watch Ray clean it up wasn’t as bad as some of the things he’d dreamed. But it was pretty bad.

"Go have a bath, mate," suggested Ray. "Don’t use up all the hot water."

It took him a few minutes to find the toilet in this strange place. But it was better than standing there.

He didn’t have trouble working the knobs or getting out of his wet clothes. In a few minutes he was soaking in the water, staring at the ceiling. The hot bathwater felt good, but unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good soak. In fact, he couldn’t remember a lot of things.

It was clearer this morning, his head. In fact he was beginning to wonder if Doyle was an illusion at all.

That would be wonderful, except. Except that meant he’d wet the bed like a toddler.

There was a knock at the door, Doyle’s knuckles, light and friendly. "Forgot to bring clothes, mate. I’ll just step in and leave you some things, shall I?"

He was being so bloody understanding. Bodie closed his eyes as if in pain, reached up to rub the middle of his forehead with a wet, hot hand. It would almost be better if he’d shout.

Without waiting for an answer, Doyle slipped in, left clothes on a stool, and slipped back out again unobtrusively.

He hesitated, halfway through the door, his body turned away but his voice intimately close. "Don’t worry about it, mate. Your body chemistry’s all messed up. You were stuck in a bleedin’ straightjacket. Of course things are going to be a little off, but you’ll be fine in no time." He shut the door quietly. Soon, Bodie could hear the sound of a pan clattering onto the stove, something being whisked, and Doyle’s cheerful, slightly flat whistling.

He sighed, forced his eyes open, and climbed from the bath. The tasks of drying himself and dressing in the clothes Doyle had provided required a little more concentration than they normally would have, but weren’t too difficult. His coordination wasn’t quite what he’d have liked, and he felt too weak.

Straightjacket. Well, that was why, wasn’t it? That also explained the white walls and why he sometimes hadn’t been able to move.

And Ray. Ray rescuing him.

Part of Bodie knew, and part of him didn’t want to know. He shied away from the memories of why and thoughts of ‘now what?’ He firmed his jaw, stared into the mirror and saw he needed a shave.

He headed out to the kitchen, where it smelled of eggs and fried bread, and beans.

"Made your favourite," said Ray cheerfully.

It was almost unnerving to see him this determinedly cheerful. Or maybe he really was this cheerful and Bodie had been in such a bad way he was glad to see him, even like this. Even wetting the bed and forgetting things and clumsy.

Bodie couldn’t remember if he’d spoken a word to Ray yet or not. Last night, yesterday, it was all a bit of a blur, more dream than reality, evaporating into mist till you couldn’t recall anything about it unless scraps returned suddenly, jarred by association. Except that it had been Ray, and they’d been together, running from something or going somewhere, and Ray had been...

A knife. A worried, determined green gaze. A knife cutting straps. "I can’t lift you, you’ll have to help me." And the car. That had been right. After the car, everything had been right except till this morning.

He sat down and ate what Doyle put before him, not looking up. The food didn’t taste like much, even though it smelled good. He should’ve been really hungry, but somehow his appetite wasn’t there. He felt Doyle’s gaze from across the table. When he looked up to meet it, Doyle cast him a questioning look.

"All right, mate?"

"All right."

Doyle startled as if he’d been bitten by a horsefly. "Sunshine...you’re talking to me now?"

Bodie cracked a grin that felt unused, strange and new. "When have I ever stopped?" Even his throat felt hoarse, his voice unfamiliar as old Victrola ‘his master’s voice’ records long unheard.

Across the table, Doyle’s throat bobbed. His smile seemed to broaden indefinitely, too big a response for such a joke. His eyes seemed to have so much to say, painful and grateful and almost overcome. Bodie felt faintly alarmed, because Ray didn’t get like this without reason.

"I’m glad," was all he said, and then bent over his plate and shovelled his food away, not looking at Bodie till it was gone. He had to swallow quite hard sometimes.

Bodie watched him eat, dubious, a little concerned, feeling like he was missing yet one more thing amongst the many, so many he was missing.

Would he ever be himself again? That was the biggest thing.

#

Bodie had seemed quite aware over breakfast, even disconcertingly so, but afterwards he seemed to slip back into a sort of numb, private, quiet place of his own. At least he didn’t seem agitated or upset. But he also didn’t seem to be quite here, his eyes staring past Doyle instead of silently interrogating him. And he didn’t talk.

"Hey, mate, let’s go for a walk, yeah?" Doyle suggested, tugging gently at Bodie’s arm. His partner rose automatically, docilely, and followed him from the little cottage.

The moors surrounding them presented a great place to walk—or to get lost in. Up one hill, down the next, over the rough or even ground, their breath making little clouds of fog in the air, they walked. Bodie kept up easily, but then Doyle wasn’t trying to go too fast, purposely maintaining a speed he thought Bodie could handle. He didn’t want to knock him out, just get his body working, sweat some of those drugs out of his system.

When they doubled back and reached the cottage again, Bodie seemed glad enough to plop down and sit, but not entirely knackered. Doyle fetched them each a large glass of water, watched to make certain Bodie drank his, and then took them back to the sink and washed them. He set them out to drain. A small, annoying clock ticked over the ancient cooker.

"You want to talk, Bodie?" asked Ray, not quite daring to look at him. "About anything? Any questions, or... thoughts?" Then he did look, and saw his friend, staring dreamily out over the moor. As if he hadn’t heard at all.

Doyle sighed, giving in. "Trust you," he said with weary affection, walking up behind Bodie and encircling him with his arms in a loose hug. "You’re alert and acutely embarrassed for the one bad part of the day, and decide to skip the good parts. Or maybe you didn’t decide, I dunno." He ruffled Bodie’s short hair gently. "Just hang in there, mate. I can tell you’re getting better. I can tell."

#

Doyle should have brought books. Stacks of books, a library of books. There was very little to do in the small cottage, except clean it, cook a few small meals, and then clean it and cook a few more small meals. There was no telly. Not that it would likely have got any decent reception out here.

They daren’t go into town often, with Bodie out of it and not talking. On the other hand, they had to go sometimes: food only lasted so long. And Doyle thought he was probably going to go mad if he didn’t get more reading material soon.

Every day, they ran on the moor, sometimes more than once. They set their own pace and sometimes stopped to walk or just sit out of doors and watch the gentle spring unfold.

Bodie seemed particularly interested in birds.

So of course, when he did go to town Doyle bought not just books and food but also bird seed.

So far Bodie had shown no tendency to wander off. In his good moments he was lucid enough to talk if he wished (though that was rare), or answer Doyle’s careful questions. Once or twice, he even asked one of his own. But not on the level Doyle would have expected from someone like Bodie. Not as though he wanted to know everything that had happened and what he had missed. Most of his questions were more along the lines of asking if there was any more coffee.

In fact, if Doyle hadn’t known better, he’d have said Bodie was particularly careful not to learn anything about what had happened or what would happen next.

Sometimes, sitting out of doors, raising his head from his book with a small breeze of wind passing as if in reminder, he looked automatically over at Bodie to check on him. Sometimes Bodie was simply staring abstractly. More often he watched the birds, engaged if very quiet. Other times, he leaned back, eyes closed, face turned to the sky, and Doyle grew very still. There was something terribly un-Bodie-like about such preternatural stillness. They seemed almost like sacred, silent moments.

At such moments Doyle wished he could just stretch out his hand and reach Bodie somehow, wherever he was and whatever was bothering him. To bring him back, that wounded part of him, so he could be whole again in his almost too-confident way, his brilliance and his supreme, nearly arrogant skill.

Of course he knew it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t that Bodie minded being talked to or touched. He didn’t. He simply didn’t seem to care either way. And that was extremely unlike Bodie, because he’d always been a talkative and hands-on bloke. At first when they were partnered, it had got on Doyle’s nerves something fierce, Bodie’s tendency to joke and chat, to pat or steer him around, not to mention those occasional jabs at his hair, pats on the bum, or quick snatches round his waist.

After a bit, it didn’t bother him. He got used to Bodie’s ways, appreciated that most of the time he was simply being exuberant and friendly. And Bodie learned his boundaries, when not to tease him—and when to expect retribution if he did.

They’d had a good working relationship, and a good friendship. It had simply worked; not always something he could define properly, but always real and always something he knew down in his bones, under his skin: how Bodie would respond, what would make him laugh, and how to work with him. Their disagreements, their differences, were simply accepted, part of the partnership instead of a barrier to it.

But now it was as though he had to learn a whole new set of rules. Bodie was glad enough to be near him, but he was mostly quiet. He never joked, never tried to raise Doyle’s ire, and he simply wouldn’t have cared if a brass band had walked by, each member slapping him on the back or ruffling his hair. He certainly didn’t seem to care how Doyle treated him.

Despite that, Doyle tried to stay friendly and encouraging, quiet and calm, considerate. He gave Bodie things he liked to eat, in the hopes of his appetite improving.

It did, somewhat. Not as much as he’d have liked, especially for all the running they did.

#

Doyle began to draw again. Oh, not proper drawings. Certainly no painting. He scribbled pictures on bits of paper, on the backs of old lists, on cheap notepaper with lines in it. Anything so he wouldn’t have to take it seriously, wouldn’t have to stare at blank, empty whiteness that dared not be disturbed by anything less than perfection.

Sometimes, he sketched Bodie. He tugged a pencil from behind his ear and flipped his book open to the flyleaf. On that blank, private rectangle, he sketched the reclined, eyes-closed figure of his partner. They were his books, and no one else ever had to see those half-formed glimpses of Bodie’s vulnerability, of Doyle’s skill that had never been and would never be good enough.

#

Bodie found it strange to realise, with a slowly growing certainty, just how tired Doyle must have been by working in CI5. Even with the burden of looking after a half-mad partner, Doyle seemed different, calmer these days.

It wasn’t just the act he put on for Bodie’s sake, that careful persona he wore around Bodie, as if walking on eggshells. It was the way he could sit for hours, the wind ruffling his hair whilst he read or sketched, his face smooth and calm, so utterly quiet.

Bodie liked to watch his partner looking calm, and he liked to watch the moors and the clouds changing and the birds, squabbling and raucous or quiet and shy. Most of all he liked the feeling of sun on his face. Those days—those half-forgotten, nightmare days—with the drugs and the basement, those days had had no sun.

After that first day, Doyle hadn’t stayed in the same bed as Bodie. He couldn’t blame him, of course: but he hadn’t had an accident since, not once. Sometimes he wanted to indignantly point that out to Doyle. And then the same listless vagueness would overtake him and he’d realise it was too much bother; everything was.

It somewhat surprised Bodie that he slept like a baby. Not the crying and waking up every few hours sort of baby, either, but the proverbial babe who slept through the night, never waking his exhausted parents. Certainly an imaginary child, of course! But that was Bodie: the imaginary child, now.

He ran with Ray, he ate whatever he was given, he sat outdoors or helped with the chores. And he slept at night and didn’t wake. Whatever nightmares one would think he should have were gone, put carefully into that hole where the other nightmares he should’ve dreamed had gone: some black hole of Calcutta. In there was the Congo jail, people he’d killed or seen die in Africa and serving his country, the brutal and unnecessary deaths he’d been unable to stop, even with all the unwieldy power of CI5 and his partner by his side. Now being drugged brainless for days on end, and those days he’d lost afterwards, those days in the straightjacket at the doctors’ mercy, they had joined the same queue. Wherever they went, and one would think they would show up in either day-mares or nightmares, or turn him as sick as Krivas, it simply hadn’t happened. He was just level, on the surface Bodie, reasonably smart, tolerably obedient, and bloody good with a gun: the sort of man Cowley and CI5 and his partner needed.

At least until he was drugged half mad so his partner had to rescue him to even let him see the light of day.

It was depressing to think about. Ray had left CI5 for him with nary a complaint. Bodie of course was out on his ear. Who would let him back in after that? He was pretty sure he’d nearly killed one of the men who must’ve been trying to help him—it came back in snatches—and even Cowley wasn’t mad enough to keep him after that.

Once you’d been drugged to a certain point, or more than halfway killed, you simply lost your usefulness to the Cow. It was like he’d said to Bodie once: if you can’t hold a gun, you’re no good to me. Well, it was the same way if you lost your marbles, even part-time. He didn’t need to hear it to know it was true.

Macklin could work behind the scenes. Even Tommy had had a place, once upon a time. But Cowley could bend rules only so far and no further: and it was worth noting he hadn’t bent them for a nutter since Tommy.

Which meant Bodie was out. And eventually, Ray would run out of money for hiding out and have to get back to his life, or whatever semblance of it he could salvage. Maybe not CI5, but he was a clever bloke and still strong. Might go back to being a copper.

The thought made Bodie cringe. He didn’t want Ray back on those streets, patrolling without a gun, only his wits. They’d send him back to the worst parts of town where a man could get not just his cheekbone smashed, but his whole life drained away simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been bloody lucky when he was younger: and fast, too. But he was getting older now and was used to having Bodie watch his back. He’d never been one to use caution when it came to throwing himself against the world, trying to fix all its evils and sundry ills.

Ray would be lucky to make it to retirement alive, unless he climbed the ladder bloody quickly, and that would mean being a lot less bull-headed than the Raymond Doyle that Bodie had known all these years.

No, any way you looked at it, it wasn’t any good. No CI5, no safe job for Ray, and no hope for Bodie. He’d probably become one of the nameless homeless roaming the street; they were ‘there’ sometimes, other times a million miles away. Or he’d be stuck in some institution, ‘for his own good’ of course.

Cowley had left him in a straitjacket in a mental hospital. Ray had rescued him. But even Ray’s patience and goodwill could only last so long. Bodie was waiting for it to end, for the next, harder part of his life to begin. It would help if he knew what to do, but he’d lost something, not just his assurance in himself but also his ability to decide, simply choose his best course of action and take it. Also strength, pride, and confidence in himself.

He still saw them in Doyle when his partner automatically knew which way to run, and how long and how far. It was something he could gauge without thinking instead of, like Bodie, having to think hard for each decision no matter how small.

Things were all right when Bodie was on autopilot, eating because there was food, sleeping because there was a bed, washing because there was the bath. Or running, because Ray ran.

But if he had to decide what to do, he’d find himself sitting there, staring at the kitchen table till Doyle gently suggested something, touching his shoulder lightly as he walked by. So quiet and gentle, Ray was, as if he helping a shell-shocked civilian with the blast of an explosion ringing in his ears instead of his partner, his equal.

Sometimes that hurt, but it tended to be at a distance, as so much else was lately. In the quiet he felt more whole, more himself, and less worried about the future. On the good days, he just enjoyed that and thought no further. He let the uncomplicated presence of the sun and his partner at his side be enough.

It had to be, didn’t it? Life wasn’t looking to get any better any time soon.

#

It took Bodie a long time to decide. Everything did, these days. But when he sorted through everything once, then twice, then again, he came to the same conclusion each time.

He needed Cowley’s help to keep Ray from throwing his life away. It might not be too late for Ray to go back to CI5.

It was too late for Bodie, but it didn’t have to be for Doyle.

After Bodie decided that, he made his plan.

The next morning he woke early, stole some change from Doyle, and headed into town. He’d gone there only a couple of times with Doyle. Never alone. Never talked to anyone. There was no phone at the cottage, or he’d have used that.

The walk was familiar, yet unfamiliar without Doyle by his side. But he would have to get used to that, wouldn’t he? The birds called their greeting around him, like encouragement that he was doing the right thing. It was still difficult.

There was the phone box up ahead, a familiar sight somehow almost out of place in this ancient landscape. He forced himself to go up to it, walk inside, and take a deep breath. He fitted coins into the slot, and called that most familiar of numbers.

"George Cowley, please," he said politely into the receiver.

"May I ask who’s calling?" inquired a polite female voice.

"Bodie."

He waited.

#

"Bodie’s on line one, sir," said Betty. Not one to beat around the bush, Betty. Cowley appreciated that.

"Trace the call," said Cowley to her.

"I already am, sir."

"Good." He was surprised how nervous he felt, punching a button and asking, "3.7?"

"Sir." Bodie didn’t sound very confident, not like himself at all. But he was talking, wasn’t he? And he’d called Cowley for some reason.

"Is everything all right? How are you?" Cowley asked.

Bodie hesitated. "Yes. Fine." There was a crinkling sound like someone crumpling paper or bending a phone cord. "Ray’s taking care of me. Can he have his job back if I turn myself in?"

Cowley blinked. "I certainly wish to find you, 3.7. I wish to hire you both back if I can. There is no need to ‘turn yourself in,’ as I’ll not send you back to those doctors to be locked away. I have little doubt that you can receive outpatient care far more effectively now."

 

Keep him talking,

 __thought George. _Give them time to trace the call and find out all you can._

"I don’t have to go back?" Bodie sounded surprised, even dazed.

 

_Keep him talking!_

 

"No, Bodie. Your partner was right, that was not the correct place for you. I must congratulate Doyle on his skill in hiding the both of you."

"We’re in Devon," said Bodie. Then he made a sound in his throat. "I shouldn’t have said that, should I? See, I’m not right, sir. I can’t remember—decide things quickly. Everything’s... far away. You couldn’t hire me."

Cowley took a steadying breath. He was used to being gruff with his men, pushing them to get the best from them. He’d never really levelled with Bodie about certain things. But then he’d never heard such a vulnerable, uncertain Bodie before, either.

"3.7, I have no doubt I could hire you again for something, if only to do paperwork. You are obviously improving and may come further yet. Do not judge the final result before time. You may be able to improve even more quickly with appropriate therapy. Look how far you’ve come with only Doyle’s help."

"No. Couldn’t do that, sir." Cowley could almost hear him shaking his head somewhere in Devon, wearing that stubborn look on his face. "Couldn’t be the mascot. Everybody point and look and say ‘Look there’s Bodie, he used to be a good agent.’"

Cowley rubbed his forehead, scowling. He really would have to say it, wouldn’t he? He gripped a pen so hard it almost snapped in the middle. "Bodie, if I say I’ll find a way to take care of you, I will. I’ll get you treatment, hire you if I possibly can, and if I can’t, I’ll see that you’re provided for, for the rest of your life. I told you once before, I own you—CI5 owns you—but that also means we’re responsible for you." He closed his eyes, and forced the words out. "And I’ve never had a son before, Bodie."

He could hear his once-best agent breathing on the other side of the line. "Oh."

"Yes." Cowley put down the pen and leaned back. His chest felt lighter, for getting that off it. He smiled wryly. Apparently Cowley wasn’t immune to being swayed by his emotions.

They had certainly been on the phone long enough for a trace, but he wasn’t ready to hang up yet.

Bodie spoke cautiously. "So when you say you’ve never had a son before, do you mean... I’m like your son? Or you’ve had a child whilst I was gone, sir?"

Cowley tried to school his features. _Very literal all of the sudden, 3.7_. "I meant you, Bodie."

"Oh. Doyle too, sir?"

Cowley hesitated. "I’ve tried never to play favourites. But sometimes one connects to certain people more strongly than others."

Bodie gave a laugh. "That’s okay, sir. I think one father is enough for him."

Cowley’s mouth twitched. "I suspect you’re right, Bodie. Now, are you ready to come back and seek therapy, or would you like to stay with Doyle for longer in Devon?"

Bodie hesitated. "I don’t know," he said at last, miserably. "Can’t decide things anymore. Forgotten something..."

"Never mind. Doyle and I can decide."

"You’re going to talk to Doyle?" He sounded surprised. "But you don’t know where— Damn, sir. I’ve forgotten. You kept me talking and traced me. Damn."

The phone clicked as Bodie abruptly hung up.

Cowley smiled wryly, hung up as well, and leaned back in his chair, pulling his arms into the air for a victorious stretch.

The phone rang and he picked it up. "Yes, Betty?" he enquired calmly.

"We’ve traced the call. Shall I order you a car?"

"Please." He hung up, rose, and gathered his coat and umbrella. He was going to Devon.

#

Bodie looked around the village, and hesitated. Then he steered towards the little shop. A bell dinged above the door when he pushed. Inside, shelves were claustrophobically crowded, aisles tight and the proprietor inquisitive-eyed and open-faced.

Bodie fought down a moment’s blank, animal panic. He laid his remaining coins on the table. "Do you have any art pads or sketch books for that much?"

A tongue darted from the proprietor’s mouth. He gazed at Bodie. His thick, sausage fingers counted the coins. Then he nodded and removed himself to one of the narrow aisles. Bodie waited till he returned with a cheaply made pad of unlined paper. He rang it up, kept the money, and gave Bodie a little paper bag with his purchase in it.

He was walking back to the cottage with his gift when he saw Doyle heading towards him at a determined jog. Anxiety was clear in every motion of that expressive body. Bodie would have thought he was on a mission for Cowley, life or death, except there was no phone back there for him to hear from Cowley.

Bodie stopped, confused. Doyle caught sight of him and ran even more purposefully.

"Bodie! What happened? Why did you leave?" Doyle caught his arms and stared into his face, his green eyes snapping with worry, his face still taut with tension.

Bodie unstuck his tongue. "Sorry. Here." He held out the package.

Doyle’s fingers fumbled, ripped the bag. He looked up at Bodie questioningly. "It’s blank."

Bodie nodded. "For your art." And he brushed past Doyle and headed back home. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. He was dreading Doyle finding out he’d called Cowley.

Even after his walk, he was restless. He moved around the cottage, pacing, picking things up and putting them down, making tea and making more tea. Doyle corralled him at last onto the couch, hooked an arm around his shoulders and rubbed his hand up and down Bodie’s arm. As usual, he seemed to know how to calm Bodie without words. Bodie let his eyes fall shut and sagged back against the couch. He thought of Cowley even now barrelling towards them in his car, other CI5 agents probably in tow. He thought of leaving this place. It would be bad to leave, but it would be good to find ways to feel better and be more like his old self.

But would Doyle go right back to work? Maybe he should rest more, too. It had to be a burden, caring for Bodie...

#

It wasn’t difficult for Cowley to find the place where Bodie and Doyle were staying. A quick flash of ID, one question to a shop owner, and he headed unerringly up the path, away from the village. His leg gave an unpleasant, familiar twinge on the uphill walk. His old wound had been much better since the operation, but there were still moments. One learned to deal with pain, if one had it often enough. And at least the days were gone when it hurt so badly he couldn’t even hide it from his agents. He remembered times when Bodie or Doyle would hurry to get him a drink to mask the pain, make it more bearable. That would never happen these days, even if Bodie and Doyle were still at CI5.

It was a small, pleasant cottage with a slate roof, a good place for a holiday or a recovering agent to rest. Birds chattered and pecked at seed on the ground, flying away only when he got quite close. The fresh, green smells of flowers and greenery greeted his nostrils.

He walked up the white path, knocked at the door, and waited.

Perhaps Bodie’s recovery could be as good as Cowley’s recovery. Perhaps he might still have moments when he wasn’t at his very peak but could still function. The man Cowley spoke to on the phone had been far from the super-confident Bodie Cowley remembered—but farther still from the silent man in the mental hospital, ruined by kidnappers and drugs.

Cowley breathed deep of the fresh, country air and looked around whilst waiting for someone to answer the door. He hoped they hadn’t fled. It would be easier to track them down from here, of course, but he wished to simply talk with them, see how things were going and feel them out for the future.

In the old days, he’d never have admitted to Bodie that he thought of him as family. CI5 and those who worked at it weren’t exactly known for their emotional declarations. Most of them were used to the idea that emotions should be suppressed firmly so you didn’t get overwhelmed by the job.

Bodie and Doyle had always been a bit different—Doyle letting things strike him hard sometimes, acting as if he didn’t care about anything other times. Bodie was more likely to make tactless jokes, but there were times when things got past his shields and affected him. Cowley had never quite got past the feeling that for Bodie, most of the time, life was one big Boy’s Own adventure.

Still, he’d always been the best—he and Doyle.

The door opened a crack. Doyle’s familiar face peeked out at him warily. He made a face. "So that’s what he did—called you. I was wondering." With weary resignation, he opened the door the rest of the way. "Suppose you’d better come in."

"Thank you, laddie." Cowley nodded to him, and looked around the small, well-appointed kitchen. "Pleasant."

Doyle walked past him and quickly shut a cheap, unlined pad with the beginnings of a sketch in it. It looked like a sparrow. He motioned Cowley towards a chair. "Tea?"

"No thank you, laddie." He took a seat at the kitchen table, and Doyle joined him. "Where is he?"

"Resting. Wore himself out, talking to you I suppose." Doyle watched Cowley for a few moments, then dropped his gaze to the tabletop and tapped the wood grain with his fingernails. "I suppose you’ve come to take him back."

"That depends. Do you think he’s ready to come back?" Briefly, he outlined the situation to Doyle, many of the same things he’d said to Bodie, but more briskly and without mentioning any family feelings. "Well, Doyle? What are your thoughts on the subject?" he finished. "You’ve been more right about Bodie than anyone else so far."

Doyle’s smile was a brief and weary thing. "Thank you sir. I’m glad to hear you take it like this. I suppose Bodie was right to trust you. But I don’t know. I don’t think I can help him any more. He doesn’t talk to me. I don’t really know how to make him better. At first just resting was enough, and eating and running. But I don’t know what to do now. I just wanted him to be better, and he’s not. He’s not himself, can’t remember things the way he used to, freezes up when he has to decide things. Suppose there’s permanent damage? I’m never giving up on him, and I refuse to let anyone institutionalise him. But I don’t know how to fix him, how to help him, or if anyone can."

"If he’s willing, my experts may be able to complete the job you started."

Doyle nodded. "You do have more resources than I do. But promise me you won’t let him go the way of Repton. He deserves better. He’s not dangerous, and not somebody to just store on a shelf."

"I’m well aware of that, Doyle," said Cowley dryly. "And of course I don’t intend to send him to Repton. I’ve already promised to find him a job of some sort with CI5 if possible whilst he receives treatment."

"Good." Doyle nodded. "If that’s the case, and he agrees—then good. Perhaps you can find me something, too." He rose from his chair, moved to the tiny cooker, and turned on a kettle. "I know you said you didn’t want that tea, sir, but I do—and Bodie will, when he wakes."

　

　

　

　

　

　

 

Part 2

 

　

Bodie stared out at the passing countryside, nose nearly pressed against the glass. Doyle sat beside him, staring straight ahead as if he didn’t see anything. They sat in the back of Cowley’s car, and their bags were in the trunk.

Bodie raised his elbow and nudged his partner. "All right, Ray?"

Doyle turned to him, as if surprised he’d spoken. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right, Bodie. You?"

Bodie nodded. He turned to stare out the window again. "Going home."

He wondered if it was true. He wished Doyle didn’t look so sad. And he hoped he was correctly remembering that bit about Cowley calling him ‘son.’ If he’d just dreamed it that made this rather sad. Not that one shouldn’t trust Cowley, because of course one should. But he was rather forcing Doyle to trust him, too. Doyle had never trusted anyone easily and probably never would.

Bodie watched out the window for birds in the passing landscape. Wild birds were never trapped anywhere. They could do whatever they liked, utterly free.

#

The doctors talked to Bodie. They answered his questions, and he answered all of theirs the best he could.

He was tested, prodded, ran through his paces: and in the end he got to work for Cowley. Desk work and helping Macklin train people.

Who would have thought Macklin could seem human? But he could, when he wasn’t beating you senseless. He put on a tough face for the men and women he trained, but when he turned off that part of his personality and you shared tea and toast together after a session, he seemed just like any bloke.

Of course he could’ve been being nice because Bodie wasn’t quite himself. People often were.

Bodie noticed it, a little at first, more so as time passed: that little extra pause, to see if he understood something. The kindly instead of snarking tone. The slower speech, careful explanations, and awkwardness. As he grew better and better, it began to annoy him more and more.

He was dismayed to realise even Ray did it. He hadn’t noticed first; and he didn’t know which was more of a betrayal: that Ray did it, or that Bodie hadn’t noticed.

At first, Ray stopped by quite often, to see him at his desk or helping with Macklin. Ray acted rather odd about that, him working with Macklin, but he never said anything about why.

Macklin, Bodie, and Towser made a formidable bunch. Bodie could be just as scary as either of them—or sometimes both together.

One thing he hated most of all was the way women acted. If they knew him, he was always poor, dear Bodie, a shadow of himself, bravely fighting his way back to proper health. Even if they never said the words. Perhaps especially then. Poor Bodie, forgetful, not quite ‘there’ anymore, too slow to reply, to decide. He must be so very _brave_.

He tried never to have anything to do with girls he’d known before, only women who didn’t mind a big, dumb bloke who didn’t talk a lot, didn’t have a sparkling wit. He could see in their eyes they didn’t look down on him for it anymore than they did on footballers. Not every handsome bloke could be bright; plenty of girls wouldn’t have even expected it. He told himself he didn’t care about anything else anyway.

Cowley was careful with him, alternately brisk, quiet, and polite. He never yelled. Bodie missed it.

Sometimes it drove him up the wall when Doyle acted different. He’d stop by in his breezy manner, as if he’d just been in the area and happened to. He’d talk occasionally, but not as if he knew what to say. And if he did, by accident, start to get back into that old habit of so many layers to his speech—jokes, references to other things, questions and challenges and rivalry all mixed together with friendship, he dropped it quickly enough when Bodie couldn’t respond with anything like his old flair. And then he’d leave again.

It made Bodie feel stupid and angry, heavy inside and old. He knew he wasn’t. He knew there were thoughts, opinions, and decisions down inside him, but they took a while to get out and nobody seemed to want to wait, or to think they were there if they had to be waited for.

Sometimes, he really just liked beating things with his fists. Over and over, pounding and pounding. Because at least punching bags—and agents in training—couldn’t expect him to be witty.

#

Doyle closed the book with a snap, anger and hurt roiling inside him. Bloody stupid he’d been, scrawling pictures of his once-upon-a-time best mate in the front of books. You could run across them at the oddest moments, and it bloody hurt.

Even when he drew the picture, Bodie had been different—though Ray hadn’t known by how much. But he’d looked the same. He still looked the same, like the man Ray had and would still risk everything for.

But that man no longer cared to talk to him. And he trusted Cowley more.

Bloody hell, but Ray had done everything he could to get back their friendship, yet it seemed all Bodie wanted anymore was to hang around bloody Macklin and Cowley—and anyone who wasn’t him, wasn’t Ray Doyle.

He knew the doctors had said there might be permanent damage, Bodie might never be quite as sharp as he used to be. He hoped it was wrong, believed it was wrong—but in the end, it didn’t matter. Because Bodie was still Bodie no matter what. He’d been the same person in the mental hospital, when he couldn’t talk or respond. He’d still trusted Doyle with his life.

He hadn’t, for instance, tried to call Cowley behind Ray’s back, and...

No. No, this was fruitless. He wasn’t going to think like that anymore. He had no cause to be hurt, no cause to be jealous. If Bodie had made himself a decent life that was what mattered. Bodie being happy was the important thing. (Macklin! Friends with _Macklin!_ )

Doyle glared down at the book in his hands, and then suddenly hurled it across the room, watching with a mixture of savage pleasure and guilt as it thumped against the wall and fell to the floor, pages fluttering.

It just wasn’t bloody fair, no matter how he tried to rationalise it. He’d been willing to give up everything for Bodie, and Bodie just didn’t have room for Doyle in his life anymore.

 

_Is it because I saw him at his worst? But he’s seen me at my worst and that never changed anything. Why would it for me?_

 

The months of recovery after Mayli’s bullet nearly put a period to Ray’s life had been difficult for everyone. He certainly hadn’t been easy to deal with a lot of the time, yet Bodie had been there, unflaggingly genial and supportive. While they never said most of the things underneath their surface jibes and jokes, the friendship had been a warm, sturdy thing between them, and it hadn’t needed to be voiced.

They’d simply been able to count on each other, then and always.

Except. Except whenever Bodie was hurt or in trouble. Then Bodie always _had_ to do everything alone, like some kind of bloody SAS one-man army.

And now, apparently, he’d decided to live the rest of his life trusting Cowley (and Macklin!) but not Ray.

Doyle hoped he was _happy_. Sometimes, in his better and less wicked moments, he actually meant that.

#

Bodie carried the fruit basket awkwardly. He’d never known what to get Ray when he was in the hospital. It was harder yet this time, because they hadn’t spoken much in the last few months.

He’d been so frustrated with Cowley called to tell him Ray was injured in an op. Ray was on bed rest while his broken ribs and torn ligaments healed. Bodie had wanted to yell in frustration, but even then there weren’t the words he needed to articulate his anger: that he should have been there, that Ray should’ve been kept from dangerous ops. That everything, somehow, was wrong.

Everyone said Bodie’s recovery was coming along pretty well, considering. It was that ‘considering’ that got to him. It sounded as though he should be content with whatever measure of health and sanity he achieved and not expect much. He agreed with that, but somehow it made him angrier yet that he had to be content with less than the best from himself.

Cowley seemed to understand, his burr gentle and warm when he said to "Calm down, laddie. It’s not a race."

Except it was, and now Ray Doyle had won (or lost) by ending up in hospital again before Bodie was fit to even start asking to be teamed with him again.

 

_I knew you shouldn’t work alone, sunshine._

 

He stood by the side of the bed and scowled down at the man in it. Raymond Bloody Doyle. He always looked so pathetic in hospital. When he fell asleep at odd moments on the job, in the car, it was different: he looked scruffy and boneless. But in hospital he always looked more than halfway broken, like a marionette whose strings had been cut: smaller and miserable and hurt. Bodie could never stand to see him like that. That was why he usually wouldn’t stay, just breeze in with a gift of a joke and leave again quickly.

Well, he didn’t have a joke today. He had a feeling he’d brought the wrong gift. And it didn’t look like Ray was going to wake up anyway.

He sat the fruit basket down beside Doyle’s bed, as loudly as he could. He waited hopefully, and then lifted it and set it down again, harder. Not a stir from the bed. Ray lay there limply with his eyelids plastered shut, a bruised look about them. With a loud sigh, Bodie turned to leave. There was obviously no talking to Ray today, even if he could find the words.

 

_Sleep on, sunshine._

 

If he’d been feeling clever, and Ray had been awake, he could’ve made a joke out of it somehow, his well-wishes hidden behind other things and his irritation at Ray letting himself get hurt (again) reframed, turned into something acceptable.

But now there was nothing, nothing except a stupid pile of fruit.

#

Ray peered towards the table, feeling as miserable as he usually did in the hospital. Then a smile spread on his face, and he snorted. Reaching out gingerly, he plucked a small, white teddy bear from the table.

 

He’s gone round the bend for sure now.

 

It was the third gift Bodie had left since Ray arrived in hospital. First a fruit basket, then a book, now this. He hadn’t seen the man once. Nonetheless, each gift made him feel a little better and mollified that place in him that still felt hurt regarding Bodie.

The fruit basket’s gift card hadn’t said anything, but when he asked the nurse who left it, she described Bodie to a T. The book had borne the absolutely wonderful inscription of GET WELL SOON, ARSEHOLE - BODIE.

Now, he fumbled with the little note tag around the bear’s neck, smiling and eager to read the message.

"It doesn’t say anything."

Doyle’s head jerked up and he blinked at the man across the room who had spoken—Bodie. He stood there, looking long and lean and grim, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. "It doesn’t say anything, because I’m not clever anymore." He gave Doyle a dark look, as if daring him to say anything about that.

Ray swallowed. "You wrote something in the book," he pointed out. For some reason he could feel his pulse in his neck. He didn’t take his eyes off Bodie. If he looked away for even an instant, Bodie might disappear.

Bodie took two steps nearer and sighed. "I asked Murphy what I should say. He said that as a joke. I wrote it in because it sounded funny when he said it. It sounded like something I would have thought of before."

Doyle swallowed. It had sounded a bit like the old Bodie. Just a bit, just enough to make him hope.

Now Bodie stared down at him with eyes that looked sadder and wiser, older and bleaker than he remembered them.

"I’m still me, Ray. But I’m different. I miss you."

Ray stopped breathing for a moment, because until that simple, heartfelt declaration, he’d thought it was only him. "I miss you, too."

Bodie hesitated again, then tentatively eased down to sit on the edge of the bed, near Doyle’s feet. "Why can’t we still be friends?"

"We can." Doyle stared at him, still afraid to look away, but also trying to see into Bodie as he once had been able to manage sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. "You never seemed to want to talk."

"I couldn’t keep up. Sometimes I just want to... walk, or watch telly, or work out. I want to be near you without having to..." He raised his hands, drawing something formless in the air, frowning as he searched for the word.

"What?" asked Ray, fascinated.

"Per—perform. Put on an act. I can’t do it like I used to, clever jokes."

Ray snorted. "Believe me, Bodie, they were never all that clever!" He couldn’t stop the grin splitting his face. Because it was all right now. Everything was going to be all right.

Bodie looked at him with a sort of bewildered frustration. "I think that’s another joke. I can’t keep up."

Ray sobered immediately. _Have to take it slow_. "No, mate, sorry. It’s just that ... saying clever things doesn’t matter, not really. That’s not important. Long as we can say something or do something together. It doesn’t have to be work. We could run or watch sports or have a drink." He watched Bodie, waiting for his reaction.

Bodie thought about it and nodded. "But I need to be who I am now not who I used to be."

"I agree." Doyle’s throat felt tight. He wondered where Macklin fit in this new life of Bodie’s. Was he Bodie’s best mate now? It hurt to think so, but even the crumbs of a friendship like theirs was worth saving. He’d just have to get used to the idea of Macklin.

Bodie reached out and ran a hand down Ray’s arm. "Now you’re thinking something, and I can’t tell what. I used to know." He sounded frustrated, resigned, and a little hurt. "When your eyes get big and sad like that it means something."

Ray shook his head, looking away. _No way can I tell him what I was just thinking._ It used to be embarrassing enough when Bodie guessed his thoughts and then teased him about them.

"I know you’re lying," said Bodie heavily. "And I wasn’t supposed to say that, either, was I?"

"It’s—it’s just..." Doyle’s pulse was hammering in his throat now, with a Thor’s hammer. "Macklin didn’t come back for you. Cowley didn’t bust you out. I bloody did. But you don’t trust me anymore!"

He hadn’t meant to shout.

"Trust you?" said Bodie. "’Course I do. Just don’t know how to talk to you anymore."

Doyle took a deep, shaky breath that hurt his ribs. "Well," he said, "if that’s all, we can work on that."

#

Doyle reached over and plucked Bodie’s sleeve, gently. Bodie looked at him immediately. Doyle jerked his head to the path on the right. In synch, they turned that way without slowing their jogging. Bodie matched his speed to Ray’s, slower than usual because Ray was still recovering.

They reached the end of the path and drew to a halt. Ray bent over, panting a bit, trying to ignore the twinge in his side where his ribs still hurt. He placed a hand there and held his side. Bodie, not panting at all, stayed near him, silent.

At first, Bodie’s silence had unnerved Doyle and reminded him of the old days when his friend was only quiet if he was distracted or upset. Either one of those things could be quite dangerous in their line of work, so he’d felt reassured whenever Bodie chattered or joked. Joking and teasing each other had kept the lines of communication open, kept them in tune with each other, paying attention to each other and therefore ready to react to each other’s signals. It had literally been a matter of life and death sometimes, if Bodie fell silent and broody.

Now it meant no such thing. He was watching, thinking, or too tired to form words. Doyle straightened at last and glanced at his partner, trying to decide which it was today. Once you got used to it, it was sort of peaceful to have a quiet Bodie by your side—a whole lot better than no Bodie at all, anyway.

"Chips?" asked Doyle. "Want to stop for some?"

Bodie nodded, but without enthusiasm. He looked thoughtful and worried.

"What’s the matter, I thought you liked chips? Do you want something else?"

He had to ask things like that, because instead of automatically saying what he wanted, Bodie still sometimes just went along with what other people said. He didn’t seem to have any confidence that his first reaction was the right one anymore. That used to be something he always had, great confidence in his own hunches, decisions, and reactions. Even if he made a mistake, it didn’t stop him trusting himself next time round. Ray had envied that at times.

Now he waited for Bodie to answer, wishing his friend could get back the confident insouciance he used to have and answer immediately.

Bodie studied his face, looking concerned. "I think you should go home," he said slowly. "You’re tired."

Doyle rolled his eyes. "Not that again. It’s good for me to push myself a bit. Macklin will be doing it soon, you know. And you’ll be helping him, won’t you?"

"Ray." Bodie put a hand on Doyle’s arm. He shook his head, looking grave. "You push too hard. You always did."

Doyle blinked at him. He turned to face Bodie head on, and Bodie’s hand dropped away; he stood there looking unhappy.

He repeated what he thought Bodie meant to be sure he understood. Best to take things slow, be certain. "You think I always push myself too hard?"

Bodie nodded.

"I see." Doyle looked away, hurt. Had Bodie been looking down on him all this time, thinking he was a weakling, a boy trying to do a man’s job? He’d never let on. Except that sometimes his teasing had grown rather pointed when Doyle insisted he was ready to go back to work and Bodie said he wasn’t. It had never made much difference—Cowley was always the one who decided, no matter what they thought—but...

"I see," said Doyle again, his mouth thinning. He didn’t want to look at Bodie just now. Bodie, who thought he was good enough to run with the big boys (Macklin and Towser) every day, but Ray wasn’t.

"What did I say wrong?" asked Bodie. "I don’t want you hurt. If you fool Cowley and he sends you out again, I won’t be there to protect you." He was almost pouting, his mouth set in a stubborn line, his eyes reproachful.

Doyle felt himself subtly relaxing. Oh. He should’ve known that was all it was, the same, unvoiced worry they’d always had about each other going out alone. There were too many dangers to really be safe in this job without backup. And once you’d worked together long enough, it was hard to trust your partner’s back to anyone else. You never knew if they’d be quick enough or have clear enough communication with your partner.

"Have you been worrying about that a lot?" asked Doyle, more quietly now. He studied Bodie’s face.

Bodie nodded.

"Well, all right, I’ll go home and rest. But just today, mate. Don’t think that hound dog look is going to work all the time." He pointed sternly at Bodie’s face and was rewarded by a grin.

They started back, walking now, pace sedate. Doyle had recovered his breath, and his side only twinged now and then.

"We could buy fish and chips on the way," said Bodie.

"What a good idea. Wish I’d thought of it myself." He glanced mischievously at Bodie and was rewarded by a half scolding, half laughing look. For that moment, Bodie seemed so very like himself that Doyle laughed for no reason at all.

#

"Now for your five mile run, gentlemen," said Macklin with that smooth/hard voice he always used for training. You could start to think Brian Macklin was a devil, after listening to that voice for a while.

Doyle tried to stifle his groan. Bodie gave him a quick glance and then looked back to Macklin. "Yes sir." He almost saluted. Macklin’s face held a twist of amusement as he watched Bodie and Doyle begin to jog away.

"You didn’t have to take the training course with me, mate," said Doyle, when he could spare the breath.

Bodie shrugged. "I don’t mind."

Of course he didn’t, dozy git. He was running like it was as easy as breathing. Bodie was at the peak of physical fitness—probably the best in his life—since working with Macklin every day.

There was no denying Ray had been dreading his testing by Macklin, and dreading even more having Bodie be by Macklin’s side instead of his own. But in the end there had been no question of that: Bodie said firmly but calmly that he was taking the course with Ray, as usual. And he’d stuck with it. Stuck by Doyle.

An intense wave of gratitude had washed over Ray, all the warm feelings of knowing he still had somebody by his side no matter what.

That only lasted so long, once your partner was breezing through the course and you gasped for breath like you’d lost a lung.

Bodie glanced over at him, running easily and in pace with Ray. "All right?"

Doyle nodded; he couldn’t talk. Suddenly he noticed an unusual look of devilment in Bodie’s eyes. Jogging a little nearer, Bodie nudged him with an elbow. "Carry you if you want." Chortling, he ran ahead.

"Git!" Doyle put on a burst of speed and tried to catch him, no very pleasant goal on his mind.

　

　

　

　

　

**Part 3**

　

Doyle stood silently beside his partner, glad enough that no one was asking him to join in this slagging match.

"That is beside the point, 3.7!"

Cowley’s voice had risen. Bodie’s had risen further.

"Oh, come on! You never hired me for my brain in the first place! I’m bloody ready and you know it."

Doyle wished fervently that he was somewhere, anywhere else. It was his duty to stand by his partner and ask for him back on duty. Bodie’s improvements had been many and varied. But it was also his duty as a friend to not let Bodie push for something he wasn’t ready for. His recovery had been slow and grinding. Regaining any confidence had been an arduous journey. At one time, Doyle would have rejoiced to see Bodie able to carry on such an argument and hold his own against Cowley. But now... well, what if he won? What if Cowley sent him back before he was really ready?

As if sensing the weak link and Doyle’s treacherous thoughts, Cowley rounded on him. "Well, 4.5? Are you ready to trust your life to 3.7’s capable hands—day in, day out, in the field?" His acid voice was almost mocking.

_No. Don't ask me that. Please don't ask me that..._

If you said ‘no,’ there went all the trust the two of you had built. But if he said ‘yes’ he’d be lying.

"Well?" Bodie was staring at him now, his face growing hard and tight. "You don’t think I am, do you? Bloody hell, Ray! You could’ve said before now!" And with that he turned and stormed out of the office.

"Thanks a lot, sir," Ray flung sarcastically at Cowley and hurried after his partner. He raised his hands. "Mate..."

Bodie didn’t answer, didn’t say a word. His shoulders were hard and tight, and he flung himself down the hall away from his partner.

"Bodie!" Doyle’s voice was a mix between scolding and appeasing. He tried to catch Bodie’s arm, but the hard, muscular limb jerked away impatiently. Doyle was almost running to keep up. It reminded him dreadfully of all the worst days of their partnership—Bodie shutting him out, angry at him or life or someone else, and refusing to let his partner help in any way.

Bodie banged the door open and strode towards the CI5 garage. "Stop, Bodie!"

If he got in his Capri there would be no catching him up or reasoning with him. He’d drive like a maniac. If he came back at all, it wouldn’t be for a while.

"BODIE!" he thundered, one last try, catching hold of his partner’s arm and yanking, trying to turn him around.

As usual, Bodie flung him off without any apparent effort, but he did at last turn, his eyes sparking like lightning, dangerous as banked fire and primed guns. "If you want another partner, why don’t you ask for one?"

"I don’t! Just you! But you’re not—not ready, mate. You told me once—"

"Oh yes?" asked Bodie with an awful irony in his curled lip and cold eyes. "Told you what?"

Doyle rushed ahead. "You said I wasn’t ready yet and you didn’t want me to push myself too hard and fool Cowley. Well I don’t want _you_ to fool Cowley, either. Wait till you’re ready. I’m being patient. Why can’t you?"

He’d have taken those last words back, if he could. Bodie reached over and caught him by the arms, shook him like a rag doll. Doyle could’ve broken free, but he didn’t.

"Be patient? I’ve been bloody patient for over a year! I’m ready and you know it! You stupid..." He released Doyle and whirled away, heading for his car.

Doyle dashed around to the other side, hand on the door. "Bodie," he warned. "You’re not leaving me behind."

"I bloody will. _You_ did!"

Doyle stared over the bonnet of the car at his angry partner. Bodie’s nostrils flared and all the muscles in his face were tight.

"I didn’t." Doyle’s voice cracked. He wasn’t used to the full force of Bodie’s anger aimed at him.

"You’ve been working for ages and I haven’t! You left me behind long ago." Bodie yanked the door open and flung himself in, turning the key.

"Didn’t," insisted Doyle, yanking his own door open and throwing himself into the passenger’s seat as the car jerked forward with a squeal of tyres. The door banged shut with the sudden forward movement, and Doyle grabbed his seat to keep from being thrown around.

Bodie swore, a long and inventive string of words, many in what sounded like Afrikaans, but he didn’t try to get rid of Ray. No, he simply drove like a maniac who was trying to get rid of them both. Doyle gripped the dash, gripped his seat, braced his feet, and eventually got his seatbelt on, never having felt the need for one before now. Bodie was driving without one, and Doyle cast him a worried glance. Bodie’s face was set in vicious lines and he drove with his shoulders hunched a little, hard and fierce, as if he were on a deadly mission of the upmost importance.

At last, he weaved through the deadly London traffic and out onto a lesser road. He pulled over to the side so hard and fast the tyres squealed and Doyle was flung forward against his seatbelt. "Get out. You wouldn’t want to risk your life being around me."

"I’ll stay." Ray gripped his seat, halfway afraid Bodie meant to lunge and try to push him out. In this mood, he probably could. Doyle eyed his partner warily, searching for an end of that white-hot fury and not finding it.

Bodie glared at him, that lead-melting glare he _never_ used on his partner. "Suit yourself." He jerked the car back into traffic to the accompaniment of shouts, gestures, and loud, indignant beeps.

Doyle hoped Bodie hadn’t lost his knack, and that these moments wouldn’t be his last.

#

"Where are we going?" asked Ray. They had been driving for some time, but this was the first time he’d asked.

"Want out?" enquired Bodie sweetly.

Doyle gave him a pursed-lip frown, and fell silent again.

Bodie drove more safely now. He could cringe when he thought of how he’d tried to scare Doyle like that at first, driving like an absolute bloody idiot. It had worked, of course: Ray _was_ scared, but he hadn’t said a word of protest. He’d hung onto his seat and kept his trap shut as if to prove that he did trust Bodie even when he shouldn’t.

Which made his little performance back there for Cowley all the more hurtful and incomprehensible.

But you could stay angry with Doyle for only so long. Even though still hurt, Bodie couldn’t maintain the incandescent rage he’d been in, nor did he want to. He still wanted to shove Doyle’s face in the dirt and shout at him, but he no longer wanted to bash him upside the nose or leave him stranded in the middle of nowhere.

"You bloody know I’m ready," he said in a low voice.

Doyle cast him a quick, concerned look. "I don’t. I wish I did." His voice was steady, nearly even. _Good old Ray, always good at talking the nutters down from the ledge._

Bodie’s mouth hardened and he hit the accelerator, sending them both back against their seats, hard.

Beside him, Doyle’s mouth was also growing hard. He was holding onto his seat again.

Bodie made the conscious choice to slow the vehicle, trying to get a rein on his feelings. "You could’ve told me before I went in to Cowley. I thought you agreed with me."

"I’m sorry."

Not even an excuse! Bodie cast Doyle a look of dislike. Of course, if Ray had tried to excuse himself that would’ve made him angry, too...

"Bodie! I want to support you. I want to work with you. I do trust you, bloody hell, Bodie! Do you think I’d stay in this car if I didn’t? I just don’t want you to be hurt!" His voice cracked a little, rising on the stress of the last words.

There seemed nothing to say to that, but the words stabbed at Bodie’s heart. "Well, I don’t want you to be hurt, either. And every day you go out without me the odds are worse."

"They’re not too bloody great right now, I can tell you that!" Doyle’s hands tightened on the seat and he flinched as Bodie barely avoided hitting an articulated lorry.

Bodie slowed the car a bit. It felt too slow, after they’d been going so fast.

Doyle cast him an annoyed, scolding look. "You going to tell me where we’re headed now?" he enquired. "Or is that too much trouble, mate?"

"Where I’m going. I didn’t ask you along," said Bodie in a smooth, cold voice. "Would you like out?" He still needed to prove something, and couldn’t let go of his anger this quickly. But when he saw the bleak, withdrawn look on Ray’s face, he wished he could have.

Instead, he speeded up again. They’d be there soon.

#

With a feeling of satisfaction mixed with sheepishness, Bodie set the handbrake and looked out over the moors and one particular, familiar little home in Devon.

In the seat beside him, Doyle stirred. Bodie glanced over in time to see Doyle yawn and look around. He always looked particularly scruffy when he woke up from sleeping in the car, but especially today, perhaps because Bodie hadn’t seen him like this for so long. He seemed to grow stubble even during just a short sleep. He’d relax altogether and then wake looking crumpled and dissolute.

"Where are we?" Doyle rubbed his eyes and blinked around, sitting up straighter.

"‘Like salmon they go back to the stream that bore them,’" said Bodie.

"The cottage." Doyle looked around, and then back at him, disbelief on his features. "You brought us back to the cottage. Bloody hell, why? I thought you wanted to forget all about this place." He gave Bodie a disconcertingly close look, as if trying to read his thoughts.

"Nah," said Bodie, casually as he could. "Liked it here."

"But..."

"Shut up and get out. We’ve got to get some things in and talk to the owner if we’re to spend a comfortable night."

Doyle shrugged his acquiescence and got out.

#

It was no harder to rent the cottage than it had been the first time. Since neither man had much money on him, that was a bit problematic, but they managed to agree on a two night stay. The owner wouldn’t rent for less.

With what they had left of their cash, Bodie and Doyle bought a meal they could prepare quickly and easily—fish fingers, salad, and bread and butter. In the cottage, they worked together preparing it without talking much. The Capri sat out at the front, out of place in the peaceful setting, looking as if it was ready to leap away impatiently and go on an adventure without them. Ray made the salad, Bodie cut the bread (and fried some of it), and they waited for the fish fingers to finish baking.

Neither had clothes with him except for what he wore. And Bodie had barely said a word since they’d arrived, going back to his quiet, self-contained self.

Ray glance over at his partner. Bodie sat propped on the kitchen table, swinging one leg, eating another piece of bread. At least he had his appetite.

"You wanna tell me why we’re here?" Doyle carried the salad over and set it behind Bodie.

His partner immediately turned around and snatched two pieces of cucumber off the top, chomped them.

"No."

Doyle flung his arms in the air, mouth twisting a little, and turned away.

The timer rang for the oven, and Doyle hurried to take the fish fingers out. A moment later, he exclaimed, "Ow!" He waved his burnt thumb in the air, grimacing.

"Run it under cold water," said Bodie, sounding bored. "I’ll finish that."

Doyle gave him a glare, but complied. He stood by the sink, staring sourly at his hand under the running water. Bodie competently slid the fish fingers out onto their plates, dividing them equally.

When it hurt less, Ray dried his hand off and sat down opposite his partner, who was already eating. Bodie ate steadily, silently, wolfishly. When Ray had had enough, he pushed over the last of his fish fingers and Bodie ate them too without comment.

When he finished, he pushed back his chair and strode from the small cottage.

Doyle regarded the dishes dubiously. Neither man had suggested washing up. He followed Bodie instead. His thumb still throbbed a little. He massaged it a bit to distract himself from the pain.

Bodie was seated on the grass, as he’d been so many times in the past. He watched the sky and the grass. Doyle sat down beside him, carefully, not too close. A bird flew past in the twilight.

"You know what Cowley told me?" Bodie spoke without turning to look at him.

"What?"

"He said I was like a son to him. He hadn’t one of his own, and I was like his son. He only said it because I was... like that, and he needed a way to make me come home."

Home. Doyle decided not to point out that if you used "home" to describe Cowley and CI5, you were rather like a man who described an agent as son.

They’d always been cut from a similar cloth, Cowley and Bodie.

Ray reached up to scratch at his hair and pull an insect from it. "He meant it. He’s always been different with you."

Bodie snorted; it held cynicism and hurt. "Then why won’t he let me back?"

"He thinks you’re not ready. He’s trying to _protect_ you. I’m sure he will let you back, eventually."

"Eventually isn’t good enough anymore." Bodie’s voice grew hard and cold. "I could go back, you know. SAS would have me in a flash. Or I’d be in demand as a merc. You’ve no idea the offers I’ve had."

Doyle swallowed. He certainly hadn’t had any offers. "True enough. So off with you, hop it. If you can’t show some patience, CI5 isn’t the right place for you anymore anyway."

Doyle rose to his feet and headed back into the house, waving away a persistent insect. He looked around blindly for something to do, then began to fill the sink with hot water and added washing up liquid. The hot water hurt his burn, but he ignored it, shoving in plates and cups.

The door opened and shut, and Bodie was standing there, watching him. Doyle kept his gaze on the bubbles, rubbing a dirty dish distractedly with his hand. His thumb _hurt_. It was almost enough to distract him.

"You’re a bloody fool, Ray Doyle. You know I’m not going anywhere."

"Oh yes?" asked Doyle pleasantly. "How am I supposed to know that?"

"You risked everything to bring me back. You think I’d leave you now?"

Doyle turned around, shaking soap off his hands, glaring. "I don’t know anymore, Bodie. I don’t know how to talk to you now."

"Well, we keep having that problem, don’t we, sunshine?" Bodie stalked upstairs and returned shortly. Strides hard and angry, he dumped some folded sheets and blankets on the couch.

"There’s your bed," he said coldly, walking back into the kitchen, everything about him hard, angry, indignant. "Wouldn’t want you to have to share with a bed wetter."

"I didn’t—I don’t think of you like that. For pity’s sake, Bodie!" His voice rose after the retreating hard man, leaving the cottage again. "Bodie!" Doyle hurried from the cottage after him. "Mate! I don’t. It’s not... I never said anything about it because I hoped you wouldn’t remember. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t think I held that against you?"

Bodie stood staring out over the moor, eyes moody, taking in the colours of the sunset. "Never shared with me again, though, did you?" His voice sounded almost as light as he tried to make it.

"I don’t mind sharing with you. Just want to give you your space."

"I’m bloody sick of space." He turned back to Doyle, his mouth still tight, his eyes hurting and angry. "I want back in CI5, Ray. I’m sick of the old man and you babying me. I want to be treated like myself, because I am myself again."

Ray didn’t know what to say to that. He laid a hand on Bodie’s arm. Had it been this hard to talk to Bodie in the old days? No, sometimes Bodie hadn’t talked to him at all...

Around them, night was falling. The air smelled cool and fresh, there were a great many insects, and birds called their sleepy calls.

"I’m going for a run," announced Bodie.

"I’ll come too." Running near night on the moors could be dangerous; if he went along, maybe he could keep Bodie from going too far.

Bodie didn’t tell him not to, so he fell into step with him, the easy way they always had.

#

Ray smoothed the sheets on the bed, wondered if Bodie actually did want to share the space or if it was more of a hurt dare. Bodie walked back into the room, clad only in underpants, towelling his hair dry. "Your turn, sunshine."

Taking a long run when they had no clothes to change into may not have been their brightest idea ever. It would not be very nice to have to get back into sweaty clothes after showering.

His shirt smelled pretty badly, so he’d washed both it and Bodie’s in the kitchen sink and flung them over the back of chairs to dry overnight.

Then Ray showered and emerged eventually wearing his only his underpants, his hair damp.

"Change your mind?" asked Bodie lightly, almost sardonically.

"No."

They climbed into bed, carefully divided in half, as clearly as if they’d drawn a line down the middle. Doyle felt exhausted from the run and the stressful day they’d had, but he also felt on edge, wound up, and as if he closed his eyes, Bodie might disappear and not come back.

"What can I do to help?" asked Ray.

The bed creaked as Bodie tried to get comfortable. He didn’t reply.

"Do you feel like you have to stay at CI5 because of me? I’ll quit if you want. We can do other things."

Bodie snorted. "CI5, you, and Cowley are all I have. Why would I want to leave?"

Doyle swallowed hard at the angry, lost sound of Bodie’s voice. "I don’t know, but if you do, just tell me, okay? You don’t have to lose me or Cowley if you leave CI5. He feels like you’re his son. And you know me, mate. I’ll be here."

"Yeah. You always are." This time, Bodie’s voice was quiet, reflective.

"There’s something else bothering you, I can tell. Why don’t you tell me?" _Who do I think I am, Kate Ross?_ But he had to ask. If Bodie had been brooding around the totally-not-his-fault bedwetting for this long, he certainly knew how to hold onto whatever was hurting him. And something was, definitely.

At first he thought Bodie wasn’t going to answer. Then he sighed, shifting a bit, making the bed creak again. "We never caught the bastards." Bodie’s voice sounded slightly more Liverpudlian when he was upset; it sounded so now. "They stole over a year from me, and that’s just thinking in terms of time. I’ve fought so hard just to regain ground. Never worked this hard in my life. And all I have to show for it is... ‘Maybe soon, Bodie. Not yet, Bodie.’" His rough burr version of Cowley’s accent sounded mocking and heartless. "If we haven’t caught them yet, we probably never will. And I can’t stand that. They just get to steal everything from me and get away with it. It’s not bloody fair."

"No," agreed Ray. It surprised him Bodie felt this way, though it shouldn’t. "You killed two of them. Whoever was left scattered so well even Cowley can’t track them down. Might be dead, too."

Bodie digested his. "You mean, you think I killed them, and we just didn’t find the bodies?"

Not what Ray had meant, but a possibility. "I was thinking they turned on one another, but it could be. Were they trying to get you back? You were sure someone was trying to kill you when our men found you. Almost killed Jax, you were so worked up, and that was when you were dehydrated and in the danger zone. Maybe you did kill them."

Bodie was silent for a moment. "I don’t remember."

"No. Well you wouldn’t."

"Flashes of things. Blood. Grass. I don’t want to remember, not really."

"Can’t say I blame you."

"Huh." Bodie sounded thoughtful now, less upset. "Maybe I already killed them. Maybe they were dead all along."

"It’s certainly possible." Doyle tried to stifle a yawn.

"There’s not so much hurry, then. If I don’t have to worry about them out there somewhere."

"No hurry," agreed Doyle, blinking sleepily, trying to keep his eyes open.

Bodie reached over, tugged the sheet up for Ray as if tucking him in. "Go on, to sleep with you. No need to talk more."

"Okay." He yawned again, painfully wide, and settled down. Bodie was all right now; he’d stay.

"And thanks," said Bodie, so quietly Ray almost missed it before sleep claimed him.

#

Light filtered through the half-closed curtains. Outside, birds twittered their morning tune-ups.

Doyle propped himself on one elbow and looked at Bodie’s sleeping face, his utter repose. He seemed so peaceful and calm, his face relaxed, his long eyelashes still, and his breathing steady.

Doyle swung his feet out of bed and got up. He left the curtains as they were and padded downstairs into the kitchen. He felt his shirt, lying over the back of a chair, then Bodie’s, and frowned. Both were half crunchy, half wet.

Ah well, better than nothing. Grimacing, he pulled the rough fabric over his chest. It would feel good to be home, shower and change into fresh clothes.

After using the loo, he scrounged the rest of the bread and butter from last night and made fried bread. Bodie came downstairs before he was through, yawning and scratching at his head, appearing very interested in the proceedings. "Put your shirt on," instructed Ray, jerking his head towards it.

"It’s bloody wet."

"It’ll dry on the drive home."

Bodie obeyed.

On the way home, they switched off driving and stopped once to eat at a roadside caff. Neither talked much, but Bodie seemed calmer today, more at peace with himself and the world. Doyle was glad.

By the time they reached London, their shirts had dried and begun to get wet again, sweaty from the heat of the day.

"I’ll drop you off at your place," said Bodie.

"Stay if you want."

"Ta, no mate, I need to change too." He jerked the car towards the kerb and braked at the last possible second.

Doyle hesitated, then reached for the door. "See you at work soon?"

Bodie nodded. "Soon."

The moment Ray’s feet hit the kerb, Bodie yanked the car back into traffic, flying away over the London streets. Doyle watched him go. He wasn’t driving noticeably less wildly today, but somehow, Doyle wasn’t afraid anymore.

It felt wonderful to rinse off the grime and to slip into clean clothes. He started making spaghetti, and then hesitated. Best to know how much to make.

He picked up the phone and rang a familiar number. "Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

"Spaghetti?"

Bodie hesitated. "Sure, I’ll be right over."

Doyle frowned. "Could at least say ‘Thanks for the invitation.’ Git."

"Oh very well, Mr. Manners. ‘Thanks for the invitation, git.’"

Bodie was still laughing when he rang off.

#

They finished slurping down spaghetti and sauce, mopping up with garlic bread, even cleaned up the salad.

"What, no dessert?" asked Bodie.

"Ungrateful," said Doyle, aiming a light kick at him under the table.

"No, that’s where you’re wrong, sunshine." Bodie’s grin broadened, and he stood up, headed around the table towards Doyle.

"What are you doing? Prat." Doyle tried not to laugh as Bodie wrapped himself round and tried to haul Doyle up from his chair. Obligingly, Doyle went boneless and difficult to manoeuvre, sliding down into the chair further.

Bodie pried him up and laughed; Doyle stifled his snickers. "There." Bodie had him round the middle now, lifted him into the air and gave him a quick squeeze. "Thanks, mate." He held on tightly for a moment before letting go. "For everything."

"Yeah, yeah." Released, Doyle stood on his own feet and straightened his shirt. He made a face at Bodie, but he couldn’t stop grinning. "You’ll be back soon, sunshine. And just remember, if you do want to quit—"

"Cowley would hunt us down and add our heads to his wall."

"Don’t you believe it! He’d get us posh jobs with the minister."

Bodie laughed at the idea. "Yeah, and we’d say, ‘Yes, Minister. No, Minister.’"

"Very proper of us."

"I’d have to re-tie your tie every day for you because you never do get it right."

"Hey, don’t knock it." Doyle pointed a finger at him. "We Doyles have a long tradition of scruffiness. Gets the girls interested in fixing us up, you know."

"And how’s that worked out so far?"

Doyle rolled his eyes and thumped Bodie lightly on the arm. "Come on, let’s see what’s on the telly."

"Probably a plant."

Doyle cast a confused look back at him.

"Houseplant? Oh, never mind."

#

"Come on. It’s easy, will you stop fretting?" demanded Doyle.

"Easy for you to say. You haven’t been off the squad for—one year, three months."

"You just go in there, he gives you your gun and A-squad ID back, and we hit the streets."

"I’ll probably pass out if he actually says I’m fit finally," muttered Bodie. "Faint from the shock."

"Yeah, well don’t mess up the floor as you fall. I’m not mopping up after your bloody nose."

"Oh, ta. Nice to know who your friends are."

Betty appeared, like a beautiful ephemeral creature who didn’t need to move through doorways, simply arrived. "Bodie. Doyle. Cowley will see you now."

"Thanks." They rose as one, nervously ending their banter. Bodie straightened his suit jacket again and headed into Cowley’s office, face tight and grave.

Doyle followed, reaching up to put a hand in the middle of Bodie’s back for a moment, just to show he wasn’t alone.

He wanted, for once, to return to the serious, stilted conversations they’d had partway through Bodie’s recovery: the honesty and forthrightness they’d shared, however briefly, because they hadn’t been able to communicate through jokes. He wanted to say, _I’m not going anywhere, sunshine. Ever._

He pulled the door shut behind him.

Cowley smiled at them both over his broad desk, looking as benevolent as if he’d solved a big case and got one over on the Minister all in one day. "Welcome back to CI5, Bodie. Have a pure malt scotch with me."

Bodie’s grin was unstoppable. His throat bobbed and he turned for an instant to look at Ray—relief, triumph, and disbelief mingled in his face.

Doyle grinned, too. _You’re back, sunshine._ Bodie couldn’t have really believed he’d make it if he looked so stunned and happy.

"Thank you, sir," said Doyle respectfully, for both of them. He brushed past Bodie quite closely, the nearest he could come to giving him a reassuring pat in front of Cowley. He moved forward to pour the drinks.

　

　

<<<<>>>>


End file.
